A Natural Gift
by theclarinetchica
Summary: 221bs- Sherlock decides to learn something new. And it's driving John crazy. Rating for John's language
1. Mvt 1- Clarinet

Being a singer in a natural gift. It means I'm using to the highest degree possible the gift that god game me to use. I'm happy with that. –Aretha Franklin

* * *

John awoke with a start, a terrible noise ripping through the flat. He ran down the stairs, gun in hand, to find Sherlock at his music stand, a clarinet up to his mouth.

"Christ, Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Learning how to play the clarinet. I should think that would be obvious."

"At 4 in the morning?"

"Is that the time? I hadn't realized." He put the clarinet back to his lips, a loud squeak emerging.

"Come here," John ordered, "let me show you." Sherlock walked over to John, who demonstrated the proper way to play- the hand position, how to form the embouchure, how to breathe properly. Sherlock was a quick learner, but that didn't surprise him.

"Couldn't you have read about how to do this?" he asked. Sherlock blew a note, much better than the awful sounds that had awoken John.

"I find that with playing instruments, book instruction cannot replace practical experience."

"Tried it with violin?"

Sherlock glared at John, "Mycroft eventually insisted that I receive private lessons."

"Would you take a break for a few hours? Your face muscles need to get used to playing a wind instrument, and I need to go back to bed."

"Very well," Sherlock said, "I have to do research, anyway."

"Hmmm?"

"I have to look up where to buy a bassoon."


	2. Mvt 2- Flute

When I started this story, I had every intention that it would be a one-shot. Apparently my brain decided differently last night and I woke up with an idea for a series of 221/442b's. I'm hoping I'll have one story up a day while I work through some writer's block.

* * *

A Natural Gift  
Movement II- Flute

John climbed up the steps to the flat, puzzled about the sweet sounds emerging. It was not unusual for Sherlock to be listening to music, but it usually was either violin concertos or symphonies. He leaned against the doorframe, watching Sherlock a moment before interrupting.

"I thought bassoon was going to be next?"

"A flute was easier to procure. Bassoon will be next."

John sat on the couch, "When did you learn to play flute? Did you master it while I was at work?"

"Don't be silly, I've been working on it for the better part of a week. I thought you'd appreciate it if I didn't interrupt your sleep."

"Thank you," John said, leaning forward to rifle through the various method books littering the coffee table. "I thought you said you couldn't learn from books about playing instruments."

"I did not say that. I said that books could not replace practical experience."

John raised his eyebrows; he could tell Sherlock was holding something back.

"I used a DVD, as well."

"I thought it was broken?"

"It was a rudimentary fix."

John pinched the bridge of his nose, "So when I asked you last week if you would fix it- you know what? Never mind. I'm going to take a nice long shower, don't break anything while I'm in the bathroom."


	3. Mvt 3- Bassoon

"John!" Sherlock called as he walked into the flat, tired from a long day at the surgery.

"Sherlock, I haven't even been home a whole minute yet. What's wrong?"

"I'm bleeding!"

John swore under his breath and hurried over, looking at the wound on Sherlock's hand.

"Shit, what happened?" he asked, grabbing his medical kit.

"Well, I'm sure you are aware I have been attempting to learn how to play the bassoon-"

"Sherlock, all of London knows you're learning how to play bassoon," John said as he focused on the long cut up the side of Sherlock's hand.

"Yes, well, I thought that perhaps I would understand it more and sound better if I learned how to make my own reeds."

"And this was the result," John finished.

"Yes, well, apparently working with a reed knife is much harder than I anticipated."

"At least it doesn't need stitches," he said, wrapping Sherlock's hand in gauze.

"How long until I can take it off?"

"It was deep, so I'd probably leave the plaster on for at least a day. I'll check it tomorrow and see how it's healed."

Sherlock frowned, "But how can I practice with this on?"

"You don't."

"But-"

"No, Sherlock, you can't play until it's healed."

"Fine," he pouted, "would you at least grab me a book? I'm _bored_."


	4. Mvt 4- Euphonium

"You've _really_ never broken a bone before?"

"Yes, John, why would I lie about that?"

"You lie all the time," John countered, "Really? With all of your experiments?"

"I am telling you the truth. Before now, I have never broken a bone."

John looked thoughtful. "Well, at least it's only a finger. But it's your left hand, so I guess that means no violin for a bit."

"You don't need to remind me," Sherlock snapped. He had broken his smallest finger in an undignified fall the day before after tripping over a pile of books. His landing had been less than graceful.

"Well, you're lucky that you didn't break anything else. Does this mean next time I ask you to do some cleaning that it might get done?"

"Shut up."

John laughed, picking his way across the living room with an ice pack.

"Boys? There's a man with a package for you," Mrs. Hudson called from the door, instructing the man to put the large box on the coffee table. Sherlock leapt up from his sulk, tearing open the box while John signed for it.

"What is-" John froze, staring at Sherlock. "A small tuba?"

"John, really? It's a euphonium."

"I thought we were done with new instruments…"

"Nowhere close," he said cryptically, "Go away, I have to practice my buzz."


	5. Mvt 5- Trombone

John jumped at the loud "blat" that emerged from the end of Sherlock's trombone and sighed. He clicked up the volume on his computer, trying to drown out the terrible noise with his headphones. His patience only lasted another five minutes.

"Christ, Sherlock! Could you take some private lessons or something? It's obvious that trombone is not your strong suit."

"I had a teacher. He lasted fifteen minutes before he left in a huff."

John allowed himself a small smile before his annoyance returned. "Is this some kind of bizarre experiment to see how long it takes me to crack?"

Sherlock scowled, "No, John, this is not some sort of 'bizarre experiment.' This is me trying to stifle my boredom so that more holes don't end up in the wall. I was trying to be productive this time since you were so upset last time. I see that I need not have worried."

"Sherlock, look, I didn't mean that," he apologised, "I'm just on edge. I haven't been sleeping well."

"More nightmares?"

John shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't know you could hear me," he admitted quietly.

"It's fine, many people have nightmares. Is there- is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, but thanks."

John turned back to his computer, leaving Sherlock to wonder if his plan was about to backfire.


	6. Mvt 6- French Horn

"Argh!" Sherlock yelled, putting the French Horn down.

"Problems?" John asked, despite knowing the answer. Sherlock had been struggling the better part of a week to play the instrument, becoming more and more frustrated.

"The partials are too close. I can't hit the notes I need to be hitting!"

"I'll pretend that I understood that. Look, Sherlock, you can't be perfect at everything."

Sherlock glared at John, "But I have to do this."

"Why? You're just staving off boredom. Pick something else to occupy you."

"I can't."

"Why the hell not? This is obviously driving you crazy-"

"I just have to," he interrupted, evading the question. This piqued John's interest.

"You know, I can tell you're keeping something from me, Sherlock. I just have one question- will it result in injury to either or us or the flat?"

"Everything will be fine. And I promise I'll tell you all about it when it's over."

John sighed. He had learned how to put up with Sherlock's experiments over the years, some had even proven to be very useful, but the waiting was always frustrating. But he would be patient, experience had shown that it was better to let Sherlock do what he was going to do, and help minimize the damage after. After all, whatever he was doing couldn't be _that_ bad.

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A/N: The next chapter will be the last. It will not be in the format of a 221/441b. I've quite enjoyed this journey while working through my writer's block. Thank you to all of you who have read/commented


	7. Mvt 7- Finale

John dragged himself up the stairs to the flat. It had been a long day, and he was exhausted. He hadn't been sleeping well lately- his nightmares had returned. He was looking forward to a nice cuppa, a bit of telly and an early night.

He walked through the door to the flat and froze. The sitting room had been straightened and the kitchen had been scrubbed.

"Sherlock?" he called, curious as to what was going on.

"Oh, good, you're home," Sherlock walked out of his bedroom, carrying a folder. "Have a seat, I'll make tea."

John sunk onto the couch, feeling as if he had stepped in to some bizarre parallel world. He waited patiently for Sherlock, thinking that this looking a lot like an apology.

"What did you do?" John accused him as he returned with two steaming mugs of tea. This was all so out of character for Sherlock that John was beginning to wonder if he had taken a blow to the head.

"I did not "do" anything," Sherlock looked hurt, "Am I not allowed to be nice?"

"Sherlock…"

"I just wanted to thank you."

"Whatever for?" John was bewildered. He didn't recall doing anything that warranted thanking.

"For being my friend and for putting up with my idiosyncrasies. I know that I'm not particularly easy to live with," Sherlock said, sinking into his chair, "Or be friends with, for that matter."

"Sherlock, you don't need to thank me for that," John said, feeling sad for him. How many friends had abandoned him in order for Sherlock to feel he must thank John for just staying?

"Well, I just wanted to show my appreciation for all you do, even if I whine about it on occasion," he smiled, "I also have something for you." Sherlock handed the folder to John, who opened it. Inside he found sheet music, it looked like an orchestral composition.

"What is this?" John asked, perplexed.

"I have noticed your nightmares have become increasingly worse over the last few months. I have also noticed that when I play my violin, you sleep more soundly. So I wrote you a piece of music. It's called "Dreamers of Dreams," taken from the poem by O'Shaughnessy."

"So this is why you've been learning all those instruments."

"Yes. I felt that I couldn't really write an orchestral piece without a rudimentary understanding of the instruments I planned to write for. Do you want to hear it?" he asked tentatively.

"Very much so."

Sherlock stood and got his computer, hitting play. They were soon surrounded by a slow, sweet melody. John was amazed at the beauty of the piece, and was soon lost in the moment. When the music ended, they sat in silence for a few minutes, savoring the melody.

"Did you record this yourself?" John asked.

"That was the other reason I learned all those instruments."

"It seems you got better at French Horn," he said, drawing a laugh from both of them. "I really don't know what to say. That was so beautiful, thank you."

Sherlock gave him a small smile, "You're welcome."

John stretched, "Well, what do you want for dinner?"

"I'm not terribly hungry."

"You need to eat, Sherlock. How about Indian?"

"That's fine."

The two men spent the rest of the evening watching telly and eating. And when John went to bed, he listened to Sherlock's composition. It was the first time he slept through the night in months, completely free of his nightmares.

* * *

This is the first multi-chapter story I've put up since I started writing again! Thanks to those of you who have been here with me the whole way. I would love to hear what you think, reviews definitely help me keep writing.


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